Looking over the stories I’ve written for this site over time... I’m realizing that a lot of them touch on different forms of suicide and self harm in varying ways.

Not the majority of them, I don’t think. Probably nowhere close. But enough that it’s noticeable to me. Sometimes it takes center stage, other times it’s just quietly there in the background. And certainly more frequently than I’d thought.

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Drunk Cracker at the moment, quick little PSA.

Given the appearance that Trick Question has joined that long list of people checking out of the fandom or website for various reasons, I figured now's as good a time as any to clarify my own stance or procedure on it.

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Yesterday, I saw this video, and if Equestria ever gets cars, this is pretty much exactly what pony road rage would look like.

And then I thought: what would current Equestrian road rage look like if it was actually rage-y?

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Well... I'm halfway through the first draft. First two chapters have a first version, third one has outlines.

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Not the usual time of month to update, but here goes. This one’s going to also be a little more personal than usual, but… well, hopefully this’ll clear up a few things.

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I'm starting to like the alternate versions of Vinyl and Octavia now. This is what sold me on them. Plus, who doesn't like the idea of a prim and proper Vinyl Scratch? I've always loved these two but when the comics showed the alternate realities and I caught a glimpse of them my mind went wild with possibilities, to the point I now like the alternate versions rather than the originals. What do you think my loyal and dedicated fans?

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Will I spiral into nothingness, were I to find the depths of the mind? Beyond the drain of thought and sanity, a veil immeasurable and insignificant. There are those who claim to have seen before it, some for a cause, some without. But how much does one have to believe, to claim the unknowable for no purpose other than an unachievable self satisfaction?

Happy Filthy Friday~.

We conclude the small party surprise today, the usual warnings apply, but always feel free to read if you dare~.

And so the morrow passes, and so the dawn is gone, before I got to say hello it left me all alone.
I speak with it to twilight, I speak with it to dusk, I always get so sleepy, passed out in evening's musk.
And so I try to speak again, with morning as it dawn,
but when it shows and when I am there, all I can do is yawn.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Farewells are difficult. Often it is unexpected, the deed is done, the stone laid, text printed. You cannot help it at that point, the finality has overtaken. But in the unexpected, a farewell never comes, it is left liminal: it is never to occur, and it has already been done.
Is it harder to say farewell in the moment. When it is known. When it is expected, than to never be allowed to ever say it.

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I await you in the evening, I see you in when it's dark.
You know of me, master me, yet you remain my slave.
I am by your side longer than any, yet my visage remains veiled.
And in the twilight of consciousness you ponder, the brief moment I am known.
Each of those moments, I scrub from your mind.
And await you again, in the dread of night.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Should I listen to the voices today? Would I heed the call set out for me? Shall I strive ever onwards on what missions have been put a-front? What is, the purpose, really? For someone of my niche, to strive feels purposeless, for what is achieved can again soon be forgotten, locked away within a glass closet, whose doors lay cloaked in dust.
But should I not to strive, then what would call shall I heed?

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Today we'll show the continuation, and conclusion, to last week's story. The final rounds are coming up, and who will remain standing, remains to see.

Struggling, bending the corners of my influence, testing the limits to be met by nothing but sheer force. The limits are there not as a restriction to what lies beyond, the limits are the beyond, they are everything else there is. So, perhaps by struggling, I can reach further than I ever thought was possible.

Happy filthy Friday~.

There is a certain tranquillity that comes with nature, this grand,, magnanimous state of existancewe share. It is faulty to call it nature. There is a great disservice done in denoting it by but a simple word, with six frail letters. for it cannot be contained in 6, 12, or 18 symbols. Were we to take all literature relating to nature, and compile it to one single tome, would reading it, still even give a spectre of the magnitude of nature? Even if we did. It would escape. It always does. It

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Separated by a thread,
over the abyss.
Latched together one more time,
every day a miss,

Tensions mounting,
All are shouting,
Silenced by a kiss.

Happy Filthy Friday, and a Happy new year~.

My perspective of time ran out.
It didn't tell me when it was going, perhaps it wanted to pick up some ice cream. A time sensitive dish, as they all are, though this one more than most readily available alternatives. Perhaps it needed to cool down? You usually do not rush out in a hurry, without saying where you are going, when you are calm and collected. I ponder if I should go out and find it. But, perhaps I'll just let it be.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

I still wish to see more, to know more, to understand, more. This more keeps me going, has my senses peaked, has my interest captured. And I barely understand what I already have, what is important to me is n disappears in a haze of striving towards new goals, towards new horizons, towards new... more.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

The times move with us, though we already knew that. It is in fact our perception of it which makes it tangible to us. Tangible, though not tactile. In that line of thought, time only exists when we care to let it. when we bother to give it a glance, or obsess over it with zealous vigor.
Then, taking a break to relax, holds a temporal duality:
It is the single largest waste of time.
And a moment where no time passes.

Happy Filthy Friday~.

Memory lingers, memory is fleeting, through memory we perceive the world. Clouds condensed of thought, serving as the canoes for sailing the seas of perception. In this context, it is sound that we fear death; the loss of our ability to remember. And, perhaps more so, we fear being forgotten.
But then, how come we experience tranquility,
in those moments bereft of memory?
When life slows,
to a stand...
still.

Happy Filthy Friday~.